Mr Lancer's Hamlet
by Kovva
Summary: Lancer decides Danny would make a wonderful Hamlet in the school play. Right. Wonderful. Unfortunately, the nightmare has just begun.


_A long time ago, this was chapter twelve of my short story collection Sketchbook. But I read through my old fanfics and thought this one was worth making a stand-alone story. I remember writing this during a fog of immersing myself in Hamlet (we were studying it in school if you couldn't tell ... ) But it's also inspired from the little-known Danny Phantom children's book called Stage Fright, in which Danny is forced to play the title role of Macbeth and meets the famous unlucky ghost or something, I don't remember. In this one, Lancer once again makes Danny play the title role, and strangeness abounds. Enjoy._

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Outside the stifling classroom, it was a bright and sunny day. Warm rays streamed through the windows. Some of them landed on the back of Danny Fenton's neck, where he could feel their ticklish warmth, distracting him easily from the English lesson at hand. He sighed and glanced at the teacher. Instead of enjoying the sun, Mr. Lancer was completely focused on his copy of _Hamlet_, which was what they were supposed to be studying...

_15 minutes!_ said the crumpled little ball of paper that landed in his lap. It was from Tucker, his geeky friend on his left.

_15 minutes! left of seventh period. On a sunny Friday afternoon. Could it get any worse?_ he wrote back.

Mr. Lancer didn't seem to notice. "...I would like you to read all of act three by Monday. All right? Good. Now with _fifteen minutes_ of class time left, I want to introduce our little class project: we're going to put on _Hamlet_ as a play! Doesn't that sound fantastic, my fellow thespians?"

"Noooo..." the class moaned.

"Ohhh yeah, it just got worse," Tucker whispered. Danny shot him a quick glance of agreement and despair. "Well, I guess it can't get worse..." Tucker mumbled.

"Knowing Mr. Lancer, he'll find a way –"

"...and since Danny here was so good as Macbeth last year, are we all in favor as having him as the lead role in Hamlet this year?" Mr. Lancer asked.

" –to make it worse." Danny slumped in his seat. "Mr. Lancer..."

But the class was cheering and laughing and sniggering. His class wasn't very receptive to plays, or Shakespeare, and although _Macbeth_ hadn't been as bad as he'd thought, he had no desire to do something like that again.

"Yes, Hamlet?" Mr. Lancer grinned, hints of laughter around his eyes.

"My name's _Danny_...and I don't want to be Hamlet. Isn't reading through the play enough? Why do we need to put on a stupid play anyway? I—"

"Danny, sometimes the only way to appreciate a great story like Hamlet is to act it out, to see what Shakespeare wanted to communicate through the words and the action together. Besides, as Hamlet, you get to kill lots of people and then die dramatically...wouldn't that be fun? You were wonderful as Macbeth, and I think you'll make a fine Hamlet..."

"I'm not cut out to be Hamlet..."

The class was quiet, watching the exchange between the lanky, black-haired sophmore and the Shakespeare-o-phile English teacher.

"You never know until you experience it. Danny, I am being completely serious about this. I want you to be Hamlet. You just have that whole...never mind. I want you to go home and look through the whole script and feel what he felt, to talk like he would have talked, try out his soliloquies. The "to be or not to be" one is especially good. For the play, we will use an abridged version of Hamlet...but the substance will still be there, thanks to your talent. I know you can do it."

Danny looked away, feeling extremely awkward and trapped. _Talent?_ The atmosphere in the classroom took on a hold-your-breath feeling, and Danny finally replied quietly, uncomfortably, "I'll look at it."

--

To get out of that classroom was a relief; to be able to discuss this with his friends was even better. "Is he crazy?" Sam said as soon as they were outside, in the bright, fresh afternoon. "He knows you struggle with grades and he adds this to your load?"

"Thanks, Sam..." he said.

"He must really like you," laughed Tucker. "Must think you're Hamlet reincarnated...hey, we'll help you learn your lines like last time...like with that machine you guys drilled math equations into me with!"

"And have _Hamlet_ burned into my brain forever? No thanks..."

"Are you going to look at it?" Sam asked, squinting at him through the sun's light.

"If I remember," Danny said. "I don't know..."

--

They had planned to go and patrol the streets for ghosts that afternoon, but soon after they'd gotten home to drop off their backpacks, clouds had appeared, and it had begun to rain. It was a steady downpour that darkened the sky for miles around, and they agreed it would be an evening off. So Danny was stuck at home with nothing to do.

The patter of raindrops on the roof was all at once soothing and annoying.

What _was_ Hamlet about, anyway?

Danny lay on his bed with his copy of _Hamlet_. It was after dinner on that Friday night. This evening was his to use as he wished. He couldn't deny that he was curious. He opened the book. He didn't let himself think about it.

He flipped to the first line of dialogue and slowly began to read. The notes and definitions of archaic words on every left page were his best friends that evening as he read late into the night. He began his study at around eight, and finished it somewhere past midnight with a sense of awe and a newfound understanding of Hamlet, the tragic hero. He actually felt himself wanting to stay awake a little longer and ponder the meaning of the whole play...but he managed to shake it off.

He was too tired then to do much else other than turn off the light, drop the book next to his bed, and pull up the covers. He was asleep within seconds.

--

He awoke to the sound of rain, that same unending pattern of drops on the castle roof.

The castle roof? He was in a castle, sitting up on his bed, dressed in a loose white shirt, dark breeches and solid boots. A sword in its hilt was clipped to his belt. The room was quite dark, but there was a candle burning in its place on the desk beside his bed.

He was Hamlet.

He got up reluctantly. It was chilly, and he grabbed a cloak that was hung at the foot of his bed and put it on. Taking the lit candle, he stepped outside his room into a hallway overlooking a great chamber with a few people milling about. Following the steps down, he recognized the closest one as Horatio, whose dark face brightened when their eyes met. "Hamlet! Are you feeling better?"

"I suppose I should, after a sleep..." he mumbled vaguely. Over Horatio's head he spotted his dear mother, her short red hair gilded with a simple crown. She was wearing her second favorite dress today, he noticed, the deep red one with the navy trimmings. And there next to her was his uncle Claudius. On his graying head was a more elaborate crown, and flowing robes. He frowned slightly.

"Everything all right?" Horatio frowned with him, knowing what Hamlet was staring at behind his head. Horatio wore a red scarf today, and a hooded cloak for the cold.

"Just fine," he sighed. "But don't you think it's kind of weird how my father died only two months ago, and just yesterday my uncle and my mother were married? Aren't they supposed to wait a bit? Six months would be the usual, but I'd rather they wait much longer..."

Horatio turned and shrugged. "Maybe they couldn't wait..." he said, watching Queen Gertrude giggle and let herself be kissed by Hamlet's uncle, now the king. The king turned his slate-blue eyes in their direction, as if he knew they were watching. Horatio quickly averted his gaze. "Come on, lover boy, let's go find Ophelia or something..."

Hamlet smiled vaguely and Horatio tugged him outside to the inner walls of the castle overlooking the courtyard, before stopping suddenly. "Oh man, how could I forget? Hamlet...I saw your father last night."

"You what?"

"I saw your father...at least I think it was your father...right here. I was talking to Marcellus and Barnardo – you know them, the night guards, it gets kind of boring around here...and suddenly this shadow, this figure appears way down at the other end of this wall."

"Did you try to talk to it—him?"

"Oh, I tried...but it just disappeared. I think it wants you. If it really is your father, he would want to talk to you most, right? Maybe it's something about Fortinbras and his secret weakness or something."

"I'll do that," he replied, already distracted. His mother and uncle were coming towards him.

"Sweetie...Claudius says you look very sad and in mourning. You don't have to be! We know he's safe in heaven."

"That's right, _new son_, you don't have to dress in black like that anymore. Why, it's an insult to his memory that you mope around like a wraith. You've got me now, and everyone else. We all love you, Hamlet. Cheer up."

Claudius grinned and winked, a trademark of his that he knew all too well and hated. His mother blew him a kiss and walked off hand-in-hand with his uncle.

He still couldn't get over that.

He stayed where he was, overlooking the courtyard. It was empty, due to the rain, except for one solitary figure: but he didn't see her. Horatio left him too; he could see that he wanted some alone time. Besides, it was rainy and wet, Horatio's least favorite weather.

Feeling completely alone, he relaxed suddenly; his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes in despair.

"If only the rain would melt everything. I just hate everything that's going on right now – how could she have married that creep? My father was a thousand times what he was. A better king, a better husband, a better man. I don't understand how she could do that. Was she so weak that she couldn't resist Claudius, inferior as he is? Why, mother? Why suddenly so pathetically limp in the hands of others, like clay? Oh God, even the most brainless slug would be able to know that she should have mourned longer, at the very least, and have the sense to not marry so soon, and such a person as his brother...nothing good can come of this, but what can I do? I can only hold my tongue."

He opened his eyes again, almost panting with emotion. This time he spotted the lone figure by the rosebushes, and got up with a will to meet her.

He came up behind her and plucked a rose from the bush. "For you, milady," he whispered into her hair, then turned her chin with his hand and kissed her. She embraced him and thanked him for the rose, but then said, "Now you have killed this blossom for love of me."

He took the rose from her gently and tucked it behind her ear. "And now it is given new life, sweet maid."

Ophelia blushed daintily, and tried to hide it by running her fingers through her short, pale hair. Violet eyes looked up at him. "How are you today, Hamlet?"

He sighed heavily, and sat down next to her by the stream that fed the rosebushes behind them. "I could be better," he admitted. He took her hand and squeezed it.

"Do you mind the rain?"

"I do not, if you do not."

"Thank you, my lord. I do love it so. When it's gone, it always makes everything greener and brighter. It brings me joy."

Hamlet smiled at her, and smoothed her wet hair. His hand touched the hood of the cloak she wore over a lavender gown – it was soaked.

"Dear Ophelia...do you never get cold?"

"Nay, not often..." she said, staring into the depths of the stream, where dull minnows darted near the shore.

He put his arm around her and drew her close, together in the rain. "I hope you should never be."

Where he had been standing minutes before, before he'd seen Ophelia, overlooking the courtyard, on the castle wall, was now Laertes, Ophelia's brother. And he did not much like what he saw. "Ophelia!" He barked from the castle wall. "Ophelia!"

Ophelia looked up at her name. "I must go, dear Hamlet, my brother calls."

"Give me one last kiss. Must you go when he calls? Always?"

"I must," she said, but kissed him back and then ran for the steps.

_Like a dog_, he thought sadly.

He didn't see her for the rest of the day. He and Horatio and the night guardsmen played at a swordfight for a while, until it was time for dinner. After that, he dallied in his room, restlessly arranging clothing, books, and pacing the length of it, waiting for Horatio. They were to meet the ghost tonight. He was nervous. Was it his father, truly, visiting from the dead? Or was it some evil spirit? Some malicious ghost? And would it reveal some help to defeat Fortinbras with? Fortinbras was to invade Denmark at some point, and Hamlet was not feeling very safe with Claudius as king.

Some hours later, it felt like, there were three short knocks at his door. He knew it was Horatio by the pattern and greeted him solemnly. "Let us go," Horatio said in a whisper. Horatio led him to the place he'd shown him earlier in the day. There were no stars, and no moon. The dark sky must have been completely covered with clouds. Barnardo, one of the guards, had a torch that he held for all of them. "Wait for it, my lord, he will surely come tonight. I know it," Barnardo whispered.

Soon after these words Marcellus spotted a figure at the end of the wall. "There, my lord – look!"

He looked. The ghost raised one hand. He gasped. By the ghost's stance and bulk he could already tell it was his father. He didn't look back at his friends, but began to walk, then jog down the wall to the ghost.

His father watched him expressionlessly, unmoving. He had no color to him; even his usual blue-gray eyes had lost all trace of blue. He was dressed in his battle clothes, his favorite sword at his side and wearing his best boots.

"Father?" he said tentatively. "Will you speak?"

"Mark me," the ghost said in a thin voice.

"I will."

"I only have a few moments with you, my son, before I must return to that never-ending fire. Yes, I am doomed until all my sins are burnt away."

"What?"

"Murder, Hamlet, murder most foul, and by my own brother, now married to my angelic queen, no longer so angelic...to marry him is unforgivable. He came at night and poured wicked poison in my ear while I was sleeping. He has stolen the crown and my queen!"

"No...no way!"

"You doubt your own father? Revenge my murder, Hamlet, if you love me...kill your uncle to revenge my death.

"Father..."

"Mark me!"

"Father...I swear to it that I will."

"Remember me."

The ghost faded away, and so did the darkness. Hamlet realized that dawn was breaking on the horizon and felt faint all of a sudden. Had it been so long? He heard his friends' footsteps behind him and felt their supporting arms around his back.

"Hamlet, are you okay? What did you see? What did he say? Anything about Fortinbras?"

He shook his head. He knew what his father had told him was for his ears alone. "Friends...I cannot say. Only promise me that you will never tell anyone what has happened here, and that you will not pretend you know what the cause of my future behavior is."

Horatio's face contorted with sympathy for his friend, who looked pained and burdened. "Hamlet...for our friendship, I swear it."

"My lord, we are bound. We swear it," answered the guardsmen.

"It is done, then. Thank you, friends."

Hamlet placed a hand on each of their shoulders, then gave them a meaningful look. He walked off then, mumbling, "O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right..."

He wasn't sure what to feel about this. His father had returned for him, but to bear the bad news that he was in hell because he had been killed at a time where he had not been able to confess his sins. Possibly worse was that he now knew that his father had been murdered, and by his own brother. Worst of all, that brother was married to his mother, whom he loved dearly. Finally, and perhaps worst of worst, he himself was the chosen one, to set all things right, if that was possible.

It was truly dawn now, and the castle was beginning to awaken, while he was ready to sleep. He felt dead tired, and all he wanted was to get back to his room, but who should he meet but the fair Ophelia. He knew he looked like a wreck, but he needed to touch her now, to drink deep of her lovely face. He had no words for her this morning. She looked frightened but said nothing, and let him stare as he wished.

It took all the energy he had left after that to climb the stairs to his tower room. He flopped to the bed, fell asleep –

-- and all too soon he was awake again. He felt like he needed to do something. And suddenly it all came flooding back: his father, the murder, the calling. He moaned and turned over on the bed. He need to take a bath desperately but could not bring himself to move. Instead, he grabbed a pile of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill, and fiercely began to write down the idea that had come to him in his sleep, one that would reveal his father's murder once and for all – he hoped. He needed to be sure by earthly evidence what his father said was true.

In a day it was ready. He took a bath, changed his clothes, and brought his newborn play to the castle players. "Perform this at the feast tonight," he told them. It was coming together. Tonight he would watch for Claudius's reaction. For it was a play that resembled his father's murder, yet...not quite. He was excited for it and hardly knew what to do with himself the rest of the day. His old friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern came to talk, but he could not have cared less. His mind was on the play he had written, and the evidence he might glean from Claudius.

But a turn came when Ophelia with downcast eyes came to him in the afternoon. He had been brooding darkly about whether to be or not to be when she came. And all she came for was to give back all his love letters. "Love letters," he scoffed. "I didn't give you any," he told her. He wasn't feeling in the mood to be nice; he had too much on his mind – his father's revenge, for instance...

"But...Hamlet, of course you did..."

"Well, my dear, you shouldn't have. After all, I am a liar, as all males are, aren't we?" he said, unknowingly teasing at her brother's warnings she had received earlier. "Dear Ophelia, I would like nothing more than to see you join a nunnery. You'll be safe there from us. No men there."

Looking past Ophelia's tear-stained face, he saw the curtain move.

And he had a thought. "Where's your goof of a father, Ophelia?"

"Why...at...at home!" she answered, sniffing.

"Oh really. Oh really! Well! I hope he gets locked in, that lamebrain. As for you, dear, I suggest you go to a nunnery."

Ophelia seemed to quake in fear.

"Oh, please, you women are all the same..." he said harshly, and walked off. He could not bear it. Ophelia listening to her stupid father and betraying him, returning his love just because _he_ told her to. Ophelia was sweet. But she needed a backbone. He paced his room then, waiting for dusk, his mind focused on the play – perhaps he should check on the players, to see that they would do it just as he liked – that's what he would do.

Dusk finally arrived. He did not eat much of the feast; rather, he took in all the interaction between his mother and Claudius and realized with sinking heart his mother acted no different than if she had been with his father. What was wrong with women? And what was wrong with the players? They were taking too long. Impulsively he stood up. "Okay, it's time for the play to start..." he said loudly, hinting with his tone the players were to come out.

A charming little man, dressed up as a queen and a tall man, as the king, came out. The queen spoke in falsetto and the king answered in a deep voice, and it was all very good, he thought. It was going well. He kept his eyes trained on Claudius, who was watching, but looking bored.

And the fatal moment arrived: when the villain poured poison from a jug hidden in his cloak, straight into the player king's ear. The actor fell to the floor, twitching. He watched Claudius stand up at this vital moment, then flee the room. He smiled a cat's smile even as he drew the crowd's attention to the king. _Gotcha_.

Claudius was guilty. He was sure of it. Now to kill him.

Hurrying after him, he followed his uncle to a little chapel, where he watched from the shadows as Claudius fell prostrate to the ground. "O, oh, oh, my offence is rank! It smells to heaven!" Claudius began to pray desperately.

He frowned. Claudius wasn't supposed to repent. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was confessing his sins – and if he killed him now, he would go to heaven. That's not revenge, is it? He would have liked to kill him anyway. But he decided to wait. There would be rich opportunity when he wasn't praying...perhaps when he was sleeping...not with his mother, though, in case he kill her by accident...

He needed to make sure that didn't happen. Why not speak with her now? There was nothing else to do. "Mother...mother!" he called as he strode down the long hallway to her room. He thought he heard a male's voice, but when he entered it was just his mother.

"Hamlet! Your play was wonderful, dear...but it did quite offend your father," she told him.

"Mother, your play has quite offended my _father_," he said.

"You know what I mean, dearest."

"You know what _I _mean, _dearest_."

"Stop that, Hamlet. You're too old for this. You know that."

"Well, I'll have you know I'd rather you not be my mother!"

She paused, stricken by his words. Her eyes moved to his sword, in its hilt at his belt. "Calm down, Hamlet. Sit by me a while."

"That's right, you're not leaving until I show you the evil that abounds in this place," he said, as he walked slowly toward her, his hand moving to his sword – he had a suspicion that lying uncle was here somewhere...

"What ho! What's going on?!" said a voice behind the curtain.

"AHA!" Hamlet screamed, drawing his sword in a split second and plunging it through the tapestry on the wall, into a warm body. It must be Claudius, he could hear the sickening but very satisfying sound of blood spurting. He pulled aside the curtain. It was Polonius. No. It was...it was...he knew this man also as Jeremy Manson. That blond hair and hooked nose. Ophelia's father...Ophelia was not Ophelia, she had another identity as well, he was sure of it, but not what it was. Polonius. Jeremy. Manson.

He heard a scream behind him and his fragile thought was dissolved. "Oh what have you done, Hamlet?! What have you done?"

He felt emotionless for a moment. "I dunno, I thought it was the _king_." He left the room abruptly and went to his room to sleep again, keeping the murder from his mind. He was so tired...

When he woke up hours later, having dreamed nothing at all, there was a messenger outside his door. "My lord, I must inform you that you are being exiled to England for the murder of Polonius. You must count your blessings that it is not more harsh..."

He sighed, blew his dark bangs out of his face, sighed. "Thaaaank yoooou Rosie and Guildie, I realllly needed this."

He found a way back anyway, by switching his letters of murder with their documents of passage, so he was back in Denmark in no time. What happened to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern was not his problem. Those letters that were supposed to give him a place to stay, but turned out to be orders to kill him when he reached shore...he almost expected it. In his mania he had gone through all their possessions. Sometimes paranoia was a lifesaver.

He felt a desire to end it all right then, but Claudius still lived. He had to fulfill his father's wishes somehow. What a terrible dilemma. What a legacy he had left for his only son, he thought as he trekked slowly up the shore and hitched a ride with a farmer's horse and cart to a place near the castle.

The first thing he saw was a funeral procession leading down from the castle. It was a grey day, the wind blew and there was not much light. For a wild moment he hoped it was Claudius that had died. But there would be more pomp if it was. He spotted his mother leading the procession, flinging violets before her, and Ophelia's brother Laertes behind the coffin, weeping and moaning loudly. Whoever died must have been important – who could it be? Surely Polonius was buried in the days he was gone. He hid behind some convenient rocks to see who it could be.

Horatio came up behind him and startled him so much he nearly uttered a cry. "Hamlet! How have you come back?" Horatio asked. "Have you come to watch?"

"I did not plan to," he said.

"Oh, Hamlet, it was terrible. She went mad when you left, she dyed her hair black with ink, and she started handing out sticks that she said were flowers. Every type of flower she knew, except for violets, she said, for 'they all withered when my father died'. They blame you, Hamlet. And oh, when I asked for violets, I saw that her eyes had lost their very color, and they were flat and grey and dead. It was the worst thing I had ever seen."

"Horatio, what are you saying?"

The body, covered with a white sheet, drew near to the open grave. The sheet was lifted, revealing Ophelia, pale hair unevenly dyed black with ink, violet eyes closed forever, lips purple in death. Delicate Ophelia, dressed in a white gown and holding violets. He realized Horatio's story applied to her and couldn't bear it. "Sam!" he shouted, leaping out, before realizing her name was Ophelia – or was it Sam? Samantha? "Ophelia...dearest..." He knelt, and leaned forward to kiss those beautiful cold lips, but Laertes jumped into the picture, breaking the horrified spell everyone was in upon seeing Hamlet there.

"The devil take your soul!" he shouted at Hamlet, pushing him away from Ophelia. Laertes had always been a drama king, he remembered with annoyance.

"Laertes! Laertes, for heaven's sake, get off of me!" he shouted, and with one last push managed to put him to one side. He stood up. "I loved her, I loved her so much. I would not do anything to destroy this." He looked at her once more and she looked more like the Sam part of her than ever. As if in a dream he knelt down once more and caressed her clammy cheek. "Sam," he breathed, and kissed her lips gently. Tears from his eyes dripped onto her face, and then he couldn't stop himself. They fell like rain.

"Madness," his mother whispered in the background.

"Okay, Laertes – if you want a fight – if you think I am responsible – than so be it," he said with a wavering voice, but his face was set. "Tomorrow at noon."

Laertes could only gaze after him as he trudged up to the castle with Horatio, who hung back a little ways, as if afraid to approach something unstable.

By that evening the whole castle knew about the duel. He stayed in his room, sleeping, brooding, mourning. He had heard tell there was betting on both of their heads. He didn't care. He would win this.

Very soon it was noon. Time seemed to flow faster now. He was in his fighting clothes and he didn't even remember how he got into them. He chose his fencing sword. Laertes chose his. His mother called to him, cheering him on. Claudius seemed to applaud him as well, showing him wine he would toast to him if he got the first hit. It didn't cheer him up.

The match started. He felt like events were moving around him in fluid motion, faster and faster. He scored the first hit. The crowd either cheered or booed depending on their bet. "Drink to a victory, Hamlet?" Claudius offered, pointing to a cup of wine for him. "No, set it aside, I'll drink it later," he answered. He just wanted to finish this.

They began again. All too soon he scored the second hit. The first to three hits won, and that was the rule. Laertes looked desperate. Claudius tried another tactic: he dropped a pearl into Hamlet's wine glass. "To the victor!" Claudius smiled.

Again he refused. "Not now, thank you," he said. The third round required a new rapier, he decided. Laertes was choosing one as well.

He heard his mother now. "To the victor," she echoed, holding up his class. "To you, my son," she smiled. She held the glass high.

"Gertrude, my sweet, don't drink that, it's for Hamlet," Claudius tapped her on the shoulder nervously.

Gertrude opened her eyes wide. "Why shouldn't I?" she questioned, drinking from it and looking him straight in the eye.

Claudius knew he had lost his queen then. The cup had been poisoned. What had looked like a pearl was actually poison.

But Hamlet saw none of this. Laertes had chosen his special rapier and they were ready once more. He noticed Laertes looked wild and desperate, his thrusts were unfocused and easily parried. But Laertes was very fast and one should never mess with a desperate man. There was something in his eyes that affirmed it.

With a lightning strike, Laertes wounded him in the arm, drawing blood. The crowd roared, and he swayed. The wound burned more than it should have – he sprang forward and thrust and was parried, and finally both swords were knocked out of their hands. He picked up a sword at random – Laertes's sword – and managed to wound him in the leg.

It wasn't a gentlemanly game of fencing anymore, it was a real fight, with real swords, and neither of them were going to back off. They fought fiercely. His arm and Laertes' leg were both equally-matched handicaps. It only stopped when a pained groan sounded throughout the room: it was the queen.

He and Laertes dropped their swords. Queen Gertrude was on the floor now, writhing in pain, her forehead slick with sweat, her mouth open in a scream. He rushed to her side. She was dying...

"Speak, mother!" he urged.

"Hamlet...the...cup, poisoned...don't drink, the cup, the cup!" she gasped, and finally died. He took her body in his arms and felt her fragile weight in his hands. He looked at her face; tears formed in his eyes. Once more he felt that she was not his mother the queen, but M—mother—Mom. Maddie. She was _Mom_ to him...

He jumped up and felt the blood rush to his head. He swayed unsteadily for a moment before shouting, "Treachery! Lock the doors, the villain's in here--!"

Behind him he heard a thud: Laertes had fallen to the ground. He turned. Laertes was saying something...or was it Matthew? Matt, lanky, tall Matt with the easy smirk, no, he was Laertes, dramatic and overprotective, a control freak...Matt!

"The sword, Hamlet, it was poisoned...the tip of it only, and no medicine can cure it, we were both hurt by that sword! Your mother's poisoned, our plan turned on its head—" he gasped, panting hard.

He didn't wait. "The tip is poisoned? Then die!" he shouted, thrusting the poisoned sword into Claudius at last. As Claudius bled and died in agony, he watched in satisfaction, and his face seemed to change to be recognizable as one called Vlad—yes, Vlad, a bitter enemy of his. How the mighty have fallen. He stood there listening, the crowd's roar beginning a crescendo and panic.

Laertes – no, _Matthew,_ spoke again with the last of his breath. "He got served – it was his, after all – forgive me, let us forgive each other, so we have none to blame."

He closed his eyes and was silent.

He was still standing, but the world was starting to tilt. He dropped to his knees, and spotted his best friend with the poisoned cup in his hands.

"Oh, Horatio! Don't drink, give me the cup...you must tell this story for me...for me, Tucker, for me – what's that noise?"

Horatio gave him the cup, which he poured out, and didn't even ask why he was being called Tucker. He was obviously dying and had finally lost what was left of his mind. "I think it's Fortinbras," he told Hamlet gently.

"That's good then, he shall be king now that I'm dead – Goodbye, Tucker..."

Horatio watched, tears running down his cheeks. He was shaking. He had just watched the whole royal family die, and his best friend last of all. The story was almost too awful to be told. Kneeling down to take Hamlet's hand, he whispered to his body, "Now cracks a noble heart. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest..."

And then there were multitudes of soldiers, and Fortinbras himself, surveying the destruction in the hall. "This pleases me," he said.

Horatio turned around, fearing the worst.

"You have seen all this?" asked Fortinbras.

"I have, my lord," he replied nervously.

"Fine," Fortinbras said. He turned. "Soldiers! You, and you. Take this man off to be shot..."

--

Hamlet woke up finally. He was not in heaven. He was in his room, his room with the real bed and a computer and a desk and posters...The dream came rushing back in all its horrible entirety. Danny curled up in the fetal position, his chest heaving with sobs, his face wet with tears. He lay there in the warmth of his bed, taking comfort in it.

It was still raining outside. The constant patter of rain had never stopped, and it was four in the morning. The whole dream had only been a few hours. He never wanted to have that kind of nightmare again, in which his family and friends and even mortal enemy died terrible deaths – Sam was Ophelia, suicide by drowning; Tucker was his faithful friend Horatio, who still ended up dying; Matthew, Sam's older brother, had somehow made his way into the dream to become Laertes even though all he'd seen of Matt were the pictures and descriptions of him from Sam because he was away at college – and he, Hamlet, had killed him!...Vlad was King Claudius, which was a fitting role for him, that snake, and he died by his hand too, but it wasn't a happy event like he might have imagined; his mom was Gertrude, the lovely queen – he shuddered at her king, and the way she had died, a poisoned cup meant for him; and his dad, the ghost, killed off by Vlad-Claudius: his stomach twisted as he thought of how real it could be. Polonius was Sam and Matthew's dad, and even though he barely knew him, it was still very unsettling that he had killed him with so much gore.

There was no way he could go to bed now. Danny turned on his computer and spent four hours typing up his whole dream, which is now a fifteen page argument on why I shouldn't have to be Hamlet in your stupid play: because 1) I actually read the whole play, 2) I have now experienced the play as Hamlet, and 3) it gives me really bad nightmares.

So, Mr. Lancer, I hope this paper convinces you that I am not an idiot, and that I do not need to be Hamlet in the play. I also expect that this paper earns me an A+ (at least) in English, 500 points of extra credit, (at least) and that I will not need to take part in any further Hamlet discussions.

Sincerely,

Danny

----------------

_Danny,_

_I give your paper an A++. Also, I am canceling the play. We will merely read through it, one act per day, in a week. However, you are not excused from Hamlet discussions. Your unique perspective would offer an amazing opportunity for your fellow students to learn. You will, however, get as many bathroom breaks as your apparently small bladder requires. As for the extra credit, I'm awarding you 150 points. That should be plenty._

_Thank you, Danny. I know you're capable of great things. Here's just another proof that you are._

_-Rob_


End file.
